September, 2005
Lessons of Importance
By Justin Crouse
Grampie Buck was just over the ridge, but the shot sounded like it came from across the river. I moved faster, anxious to see what he got. At eighty-five, shotgun hunting birds and rabbits was all his eyesight could manage. I was sent out with him to make sure he didn't fall or get turned around. It suited me fine, and saved Dad a lot of grief.
I worked semicircles around Grampie Buck on the road. Getting something this early was a good sign. Dad and the others weren’t having much luck with the deer because it was still warm. Grampie Buck and I could top the list this year. The McCullochs were killers. Grampie Buck was a legend in Piscataquis County; Dad wasn’t far behind. I wouldn’t be. I threw up the first time Dad showed me how to gut a deer. From then on, I pretty much only went out with Grampie Buck. He taught me things, like calling squirrels and spotting the black rabbit eye in a brush pile. Dad just complained about how loud I was, and how I couldn’t sit still.
The yelp came late. Jack hadn't barked, which wasn’t unusual. He barely left Grampie Buck’s leg. Dad told stories about how great a flushing dog he'd once been. He'd even done well on ducks with no more training than what he was born with. Now, we could shout 'find the bird' into both of his ears, point at one in the road, and he'd bark in the opposite direction.
I picked my way through the slippery November leaves. A partridge strutted out from under a scrub spruce, clucking like a hen. I put a bead on him. In the hush just before firing, I heard whimpering coming from the road. I looked up away from the barrel. My heart leapt when the moaning started. The partridge put its head down and scurried off. I swore and ran.
Alder branches whipped my face. I tried to yell, but nothing came out. If everything were okay, I’d look like a fool. One of Grampie Buck’s rules was not to yell. I nearly fell through the brush into the knee-high grass of the road. My heartbeat pounded in my ear. I didn’t know if they were up or down the road. There was a footprint in the mud of the rut. I ran down the middle of the road, crunching frost.
Grampie Buck sat on his knees, his back to me. There was blood on the gold grass around him. Jack's legs stuck out shaking.
"Gramp, what happened? You okay?" I barely got the words out. I laid my gun in the grass beside his, and stared at his back. I couldn’t move. He hadn’t moved either, and the moaning had stopped. I thought he was dead until he rocked back and forth. I walked up and grabbed him by the shoulders.
Jack lay full out. There were dark spots on his chocolate flank, and the white fur of his snout was stained red.
"I aimed at the rabbit. I swear to god, I aimed at the rabbit." Grampie Buck clutched his hat to his chest.
"Was Jack chasing the rabbit?" He looked up at me, and I almost laughed at how stupid the question sounded. I kneeled down, and held Jack's eyelid open. The eye swiveled in its socket. "Maybe it's not that bad. You bring the guns." Grampie Buck held my arm down.
"No, don't. Don't pick him up. It's bad, Stevie." He opened his other hand and held the shell up. It was buckshot. My face got hot.
"But, why'd you?"
Grampie Buck clamped his eyes shut. "I didn't know. It was an accident."
I hugged him, and he shuddered. I didn't know what to say. If I’d had the guts, I would have worked the blow downs with Dad and the others. Grampie Buck would have happily stayed at camp. My stomach churned, and I gulped.
Grampie Buck stood up, and took out his handkerchief. "We can't leave him like this," he stammered. He pulled his .22 from the holster. I started crying. He held it out at Jack's head. I looked into the woods, waiting and waiting, but the shot didn’t come. Grampie Buck’s eyes were locked shut and tears flowed down his deep wrinkles. The barrel of the gun jumped up and down.
I put my arm around him and twisted the pistol from his hand. "I can do it, Gramp," I said.
He let go, got down on both knees again, and kissed Jack's face. He snuggled against him. “I'm sorry Jack, I'm so sorry," he whispered. I helped him up, and he started up the road.
I sighted in. If Jack looked or made a noise, I couldn’t do it. I’d never felt so sorry, for both of them. I turned and watched Grampie Buck’s back. My stomach calmed, and I squeezed. Grampie Buck’s shoulders jumped at the crack, but he kept walking.
I didn't have to look. Jack's wheezing stopped. Dad would come down and get him later. We'd bury him out in the rock pile beside the potato field with Duke, his father. I knew Dad would tell me I did the right thing, and that he was proud of me for it. I didn’t feel proud. I wondered if he had ever done anything, felt anything, as hard as this. I picked up the guns and quick-walked to catch up with Grampie Buck. I stayed a few paces behind him the whole way back to camp.
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